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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27939192">comme un rêve</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/clowngod/pseuds/clowngod'>clowngod</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Besotted Hannibal Lecter, Daydreaming, Declarations Of Love, Drawing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Like, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Short Drabbles, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Yearning, besotted european cannibal man!!!!!!! what will he do next, hannibal drawing will a bunch....... because gay, stop before i punch u amounts of yearning, there's just...... so much yearning guys</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:26:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,637</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27939192</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/clowngod/pseuds/clowngod</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"'Do you fall in love often?'" Yes, often. With a view, with a book, with a dog, a cat, with numbers, with friends, with complete strangers, with nothing at all."

</p>
  <p>- <b>Jeanette Winterson</b>, <i>Gut Symmetries</i>.</p>
</blockquote>Or, Several times Hannibal Lecter falls in love.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>comme un rêve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>find me on tumblr <a href="https://clowngod.tumblr.com/">here</a></p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>. . Aching and longing for what, he at first, does not know. He doesn’t dwell on it, naturally, as the feelings within rage on, careening back into him the second he sits at his desk.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The original intention to ignore the matter is squashed, by a text that chimes quietly from his phone.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <b>thank you for seeing me this late. have a good night.</b>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>A small intake of breath, a shallow exhale. He’s always despised Will’s way of sending messages — all lowercase, sometimes no punctuation. Most times they were rushed, half times with enough errors that could make him go cross eyed.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>It was devastatingly endearing.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Sometimes I imagine what it’d be like to show you I’m alive. The thrill of it. The sharp inhale. The nerve exposed. The bone.</p>
  <p>— <strong>Kate Baer</strong>, from “First Love,” <a href="%E2%80%9C">What Kind of Woman</a></p>
</blockquote><p><br/>
It's a damnable thing, love.</p><p>With every paraphrase, with every anthology. We find that we deem the concept to a higher degree. We are but fools who fall senselessly in love when given a single taste, forever unsated, as if the very thing wasn't simply a list of hormones spritzing off within uncharted minds. Our hands ache for bitter touch, for unrivaled trepidation that lingers dangerously within our psyches.</p><p>Love is venomous, belittling, destructive. </p><p>It was the reason for the downfall of many epics, and of their power which was stripped from them. A weakness so grand that it had been used solely against them, as a weapon, as a curse. A detestable thing, love is.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>And yet love is also kind. It is the feeling of clarity, both romantical and platonic. It’s gentle arms morph around you and pulls you in close, holding you carefully, with each of its tormenting fibers. You breathe it in and it exhales out from you.</p><p>It is a drug, intoxicating. And we are all but addicts.</p><p>Hannibal is not prone to the whimsies of love, and if anything, he understands much of his catastrophic feelings. </p><p>For he does not deny how he feels, no. Instead, he revels in the bitter sweetness with a solemn breath, eyes closing in brief thought as he thinks. As he sighs, within the tidy crevices of his memory palace. As he frowns, smiles.</p><p>The realization was haunting. He had sat just at the edge of his desk, listening intently to the words of a tired man, blue eyes lingering just about anywhere but his own. Jack had warned him as much, when the profiler finally caved and walked in for their first session, now being their twelfth. He had known as much, actually, in their initial meeting. </p><p>
  <em>His interest peaks, as chiseled features tilt to one side.</em>
</p><p>‘<em>Not fond of eye contact, are you?</em>’</p><p>
  <em>The twitchy man relents, after a slow shake of his head. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Eyes are distracting,’ he earnestly, despite himself, retorts. ‘You see too much, you don't see enough. And-And it's hard to focus when you're thinking, um, “Oh, those whites are really white”, or, “He must have hepatitis”, or, “Oh, is that a burst “vein?”’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Another short breath, this time gaze fixating sharply upon his discarded and cooling mug. ‘So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.’</em>
</p><p>A shame, really, is what it was. For the empath, sitting man-spread just to the left of him, had rather lovely opal hues. Deep blue like the ocean, with rings that resembled turbulent storms. He could hear lightning crash as he stares into them, the distant thunder arousing a sense of power, locked away, much like the great titans that rave within the deep seas. </p><p>Their gazes are short lived ones. A glance here and there, mutual staring when one thinks the other is looking elsewhere. Sometimes, during these odd pauses, their eyes catch, latch together, and Hannibal breathes in the ocean air — savoring the way he can see the waves crashing within exhausted irises. </p><p>Now, those stormy blues (<em>And oh, how blue they were</em>) look pointedly towards the clock perched decadently atop his mantle, and elicits himself a thrumming curse. </p><p>On anyone else Hannibal would’ve bristled. Hands tightening, balling, with a sickly anticipation to <em>squeeze</em>—</p><p>But, Will was Will. The enigma that he is, the detestable word merely rings like a chime, and brings another sense of calm to wash through him. He feels almost disgusted at himself, momentarily, for even thinking of harming the other. Of bringing something upon him that only pests deserved.</p><p>And he has no clue why.</p><p>When Will is out the door, muttering hastily about feeding his dogs and turning in for the day, Hannibal does not stop him. His own words fall gracefully, masked only by the polite upturn of his lips. A smile which was there, barely, reaching the rims of his eyes.</p><p>His door closes after a moment, followed by the second, until he could hear Will’s car purring to life, leaving Hannibal’s driveway as if the man inside wasn’t suddenly aching, longing.</p><p>Aching and longing for what, he at first, does not know. He doesn’t dwell on it, naturally, as the feelings within rage on, careening back into him the second he sits at his desk.</p><p>The original intention to ignore the matter is squashed, by a text that chimes quietly from his phone.</p><p>
  <em>thank you for seeing me this late. have a good night.</em>
</p><p>A small intake of breath, a shallow exhale. He’s always despised Will’s way of sending messages — all lowercase, sometimes no punctuation. Most times they were rushed, half times with enough errors that could make him go cross eyed.</p><p>It was devastatingly endearing.</p><p>Then, sitting back into his cushioned seat, he’s reminded suddenly of cerulean shards. Of wet dog, bad aftershave, and a white house that floats like a boat at sea. Of freshly gutted fish, of evaporating snow. Motor oil, strangely, and pine. Beauty has never been normal for him, both in the macabre and grotesque, and perhaps not even now, when thinking of the odd. </p><p>He leans further back, eyes closing as he imagines himself swaying into a babbling brook, falling down stream.</p><p>His memory palace: grand, homely — is far different to the rill in which he traverses down. It is wet, for one, and is not an actual abode. Of what he can imagine of the empath, this was the closest thing to a home for him. A safe place, as Hannibal’s brain helpfully chimes in. A haven.</p><p>When he opens his eyes he is besides Will, standing to his right as a long line is whisked in to the shallow waters. Fly fishing, he soon realizes, with Will decked charmingly in his usual gear (or what his brain perceives might be usual). Boots keeping him safe from the flowing currents.</p><p>”A little late for a trip to the stream, don’t you think, Doctor Lecter?”</p><p>A jest, partially, as Will’s gaze meanders from his outstretched line towards his companion. Hannibal smiles when their eyes meet.</p><p>”I could say the same for you, dear Will.”</p><p>A shrug, ”I like to fish. You don’t.” Will simply states, raising a metaphorical brow. He wasn’t actually there, after all. Just a figment created within Hannibal’s forlorn mind.</p><p>His smile widens, showing crooked teeth, “Who says I do not appreciate the acts of hunting, no matter in what terrain?”</p><p>”No one. You just don’t like to fish. Or, you don’t like the idea of fly fishing, at least. Too much water for you, Dr. Lecter?”</p><p>Even within his walls, Will was tactful. </p><p>“I’ll admit, I have never bothered to understand why you adored this method of fishing. Not even now, as I stand beside you, peering upon the depthless blue. Though, I do appreciate the company.” A pause, then. “And please, Will. Hannibal is just fine.”</p><p>At this Will laughs, bright and bountiful, as if he had heard the best joke one could possibly utter. And Hannibal, slowly realizing why his heart beats faster at the sound, can only smile further at it. For the laugh, so pure and real, could’ve never been perceived on its own. He would’ve remember something so beautiful, seraphic. Would have entombed it forever.</p><p>”I’m not actually <em>here</em>, y’know,” Will says then, after another blissful fit of glee, “This is all in your head. A prolific amalgamation of what your thoughts think <em>I</em> imagine. Which is, unsurprisingly, really meta for you. Thank you for proving that you are constantly pretentious, inside and out.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.” He does not blame Will for his words. They were not his.</p><p>A gloved hand reaches backwards to place itself on the nape of his neck, rubbing the area precariously. A habit that the real Will omits, when growing antsy or unsure.</p><p>”Yeah, well. You should get home. The waters getting cold, and I’m pretty sure you fell asleep at your desk. I’ll catch you a fish next time, if you decide to stop by again.”</p><p>The idea is tempting, though Hannibal knows he will not return. There wouldn’t be a reason to, and he wouldn't allow himself the impulse, as well. </p><p>“Perhaps at a later date, Will. I will see you then.” Hannibal finds that he does not want to leave. “Goodbye.”</p><p>Will begins to fade slightly, then, something tugging at the ends of the line as he turns toward it, reeling it in. </p><p>“Goodbye, Hannibal.”</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And just like that he awakens, inclined perfectly where he had last laid, one leg crossed over black slacks, as to relax him further into the seat, just like Will had predicted. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Amber eyes, now practically pitch black under the low lights of his office, catch themselves looking towards the door, as if expecting Will to walk back in; tired, drowsy, and ready for another session. Possibly, even, with some freshly caught fish as a joking nod to their shared dream state.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He does not.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Briskly leaving the comfortable confines of his desk chair, Hannibal begins to ready himself for the short journey home, hands quickly sending out an apology for the late response, which doesn’t garner an answer in return. Will was already asleep, then. Or busy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Within the small waiting room, the faintest hints of sea water and sandalwood linger along its entryway, staying there despite the deep inhale it receives from the doctor. He loiters for awhile, calmed by the small space and idea of his friend walking here before, several times, much like he had done — is doing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The thought of it is enthralling, and worrisome.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>not beta read! (yet 😏)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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